Where tears weep out to the hovering space,
I’ll say that it is you who cries.
Behind a closed curtain where farewells die,
There is you who cries.
There is the merciless destruction of a form,
A love had once protected it,
And protected a face,
From scarring.
Death is your only reward,
For your selfish abandonment.
What is my reward?
Where is my punishment?
I am the fallen curtain,
And the somber attitude.
The endless revealing of your bleeding tears,
The times we’ve kept to the unending dark,
Has played our emotions like distant notes,
Called from a rock,
Called from a wailing woman,
Whose lover has gone away.
There is shadow that creeps over me,
By the futility of a presence.
I am angered by my desire,
To still have you, by the moment I’m meant to hang.
Love has called me back,
To my selfish hopes,
Your selfishness is merely a stone,
To my boulder.
Your shielding hands do not wash tears,
But merely keep your face hidden from the crudeness,
Of my blatancy.
Of balance and form, of folded wings that burn.
Of grace and sickening aromas,
Of rouge and shadow and roses,
Of beauty and the chain to the whip.
There is all the desire to behold.
There is a reveal of madness in my swimming eyes,
There is a curtain of forgiveness upon my arm,
There are beauties who roam,
And kisses that touch.
I am nothing without a fever,
Without a love.
I am nothing,
And simply everything.
Modern Romanticism 